


Thigmotropia

by AsgardianAngels



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Garak & Keiko botany buddies, Garak POV, Gardening, Keiko POV, Light Angst, M/M, matchmaker Keiko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29691549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsgardianAngels/pseuds/AsgardianAngels
Summary: After witnessing his bouts of silent distress during the Defiant's away missions, Keiko thinks that Garak, like her plants, just needs a little encouragement to bloom.Set late season 4, between Accession and Body Parts.
Relationships: Elim Garak & Keiko O'Brien, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Keiko O'Brien/Miles O'Brien
Comments: 19
Kudos: 127





	Thigmotropia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ectogeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectogeo/gifts).



> I wrote this as a big thank you to Ecto-Geo for illustrating my fic 'Computer, End Program'! Her prompt was ~Garak and Keiko being besties, plus Molly as wingman.~
> 
> Being an ecologist I like the idea of that arboretum happening, even if it was never confirmed in canon. Given that they work with the Bajorans, you'd think they'd want to set something up to preserve endangered flora from the planet post-Occupation. Overall, I think any space station needs more organic life. I miss the vines that twined up the pillars in the Replimat in season 1.
> 
> Prairie-smoke, _Geum triflorum_ , is a gorgeous and charismatic rare plant, my university has it in their rooftop garden. Alvar ecosystems are highly imperiled, you should look them up!

_Thigmotropic (adjective) - to exhibit directional growth, usually by a plant, in response to physical touch._

\---

Keiko ran the brush through her hair one last time, giving herself a once-over before setting it down on the nightstand. She grabbed the tiny pair of white shoes from their hiding place under the sofa and laid them by the door.

“Molly sweetie, come and put your shoes on, we don’t want to be late!”

The youngest O’Brien emerged from her bedroom, sporting a red dress over white stockings and a long-sleeved shirt patterned with cheery Bajoran sunflowers. “Mommy,” she whined, “I can’t find my scrunchie.”

“I’ve got it right here, honey.” She pulled her daughter’s hair into a loose ponytail with the hair tie. “Now come on, we have to go meet Daddy at the airlock. He’ll be very happy to see you!”

Molly slipped her feet into the shoes. “I’m glad Daddy’s home, I don’t like it when he goes away for so long.”

“I know, Molly. We’re going to give him a big hug when we see him, ok?” She took Molly’s hand and together they left their quarters and made their way down the corridor to the turbolift.

They stepped out onto the Promenade, winding their way through the streaming crowds to the opposite end where another turbolift would bring them to the walkway to the outer docking ring. It was a pilgrimage she and Molly dutifully made whenever Miles and the rest of the Defiant crew returned from a mission. More often than not these days they were harrowing close-calls, and the wait was nail-biting.

She tugged Molly along by the hand behind her, having already stopped to concede to her demands for a jumja stick and not wanting to miss the disembarking. She’d learned to factor in time for distractions.

“Look Mommy, it’s Mr. Garak!” Molly pointed to the upper level, where a broad-framed figure stood at one of the portholes, hands clasped behind his back. From where they were standing, only a sliver of his face was visible, the rows of angular scales running the length of his jaw illuminated by pearly starlight. He didn’t turn at the mention of his name, but whether that was due to poor Cardassian hearing or being lost in thought, it was impossible to tell.

Keiko pursed her lips, and turned back to Molly. “Yes, sweetie, but let’s leave him be. Your father’s expecting us any minute now.” They continued on their original path, Keiko shooting one last glance back at the tailor, whose body stood rigid and ill at ease as he peered intently into the inky blackness. The jumja stick began to drip down Molly’s hand. Keiko had, of course, remembered to take napkins.

\---

“Molly! How’s my little girl?”

A weary Chief O’Brien stepped out of the airlock, followed by several other members of Starfleet. He was greeted by a fierce hug to the leg by his daughter. He pried her off and swept her up into a proper embrace, cradling her with both arms.

“I missed you so much Daddy,” she said, wiping sticky fingers on the back of his uniform.

“Hi honey,” Keiko drawled with a big smile. He set Molly down and brought his wife in for a kiss. “How’d everything go?”

“Not too bad I suppose,” he shrugged. “We surveyed some of the outlying M-class planets near the edge of Dominion space, Captain Sisko wanted to map the area and search for any possible incursions by the Jem’Hadar. Setting up scouting bases, things like that, y’know.”

She patted his arm. “Well, good. I’m glad you didn’t run into any trouble. Molly has a whole stack of drawings she’s been waiting to show you.”

“Does she now?” Miles teased, looking in Molly’s direction. “I’ll have to have a talk with the Captain, tell him to make these missions shorter, it sounds like I’m missing all the excitement here.” He grinned at his daughter, who erupted into a giggle.

A smattering of other spouses and children were present to greet officers and ensigns as they boarded the station. Most of Ops had already departed down the hall, chatting amiably amongst themselves. Pulling up the rear, Julian Bashir lugged his medical gear over the threshold, looking just as harried as the Chief. Two weeks out in the Gamma Quadrant, even when not in combat, took its toll. He cast his gaze around the dispersing masses hopefully, but didn’t seem to find what he was looking for, and lowered his head back to eye level rather dejectedly.

He regarded Keiko with a polite nod. “Mrs. O’Brien. Coming along well, I see.” He gestured towards her just visible baby bump. “You’re still taking the _makara_ -infused tea at least once a day, I hope?”

“Yes Julian, everything’s fine,” she reassured sweetly.

“Oh hey, Julian.” Miles caught him before he turned to go. “After I get everything squared away with Keiko and Molly, how’s about a game of darts? It is Tuesday after all.”

Julian flashed him a weak smile. “Sure, maybe later.” He sounded tired, and giving them a lazy salute he trudged down the corridor, lopsided with his heavy bags in tow.

After Miles had unpacked and headed off to Quark’s to unwind, and Molly was tucked into bed, Keiko slumped into her chair behind the computer console, nursing a steaming mug of medically-prescribed tea. She prodded half-heartedly at a bonsai stub in its pot, salvaged from the botanical massacre caused by Julian and her husband when she was on Bajor. Her thoughts drifted back to earlier in the evening, seeing Garak alone on the Promenade, looking so out of place like a marble statue in the fluid hustle and bustle of activity.

This hadn’t been the first time she’d spied him there, waiting for the wormhole to open. Many came to view the spectacle, but unlike them his shoulders were tensed, expression stoic and unreadable, gaze sharp as if locked onto something no one else could see. Keiko figured it would be unwise for a (former) spy to develop habits and patterns that could be used to track him, but Garak like the rest of them had his creature comforts. Recently it seemed as if he’d truly started to settle into his life on the station, branching out to form connections outside of business. Keiko was one of them; after enough times ordering new clothes for Molly from his shop, they’d gotten to talking, and before long their shared interest in gardening had prompted them to convince Captain Sisko to move forward with the plan to convert one of the empty cargo bays into a makeshift arboretum. Garak had said the exercise of gardening was both therapeutic and a way to hone and maintain one’s mental discipline. He was undoubtedly aware she knew he took a keen interest in plants containing secondary metabolic compounds with neurotoxic effects on certain humanoids known to be enemies of the Cardassian Empire.

When they weren’t sharing a free hour with their hands in potting soil, their paths intersected regularly on that other occasion – the much-anticipated return of the Defiant from its latest perilous undertaking. She would glimpse him at his regular spot on her way by, never approaching and breaking the uneasy silence. But without fail, on the walk back with her husband Garak would be gone, having dissolved into the crowd after completing whatever mission compelled him there night or day.

It seemed more and more these days that Julian Bashir wished a certain someone was there to greet him upon arriving home.

Keiko wasn’t sure exactly how long this strange behavior, from the both of them, had been going on. She’d been away on Bajor for several months. But from what she could piece together, something had changed – it may have been about a year ago, after that terrible incident with the failed attack on the Dominion, carried out by Garak’s former mentor. She couldn’t recall a time before that when Garak had held his silent windowside vigil, at least not in public. And he still didn’t, sometimes, she suspected. He wasn’t always there. Not coincidentally at all, those were the real gut-wrenchers, the missions where success, or even survival, was torturously uncertain. The ones where she held her breath almost expecting to receive one of Miles’s pre-recorded goodbyes. Garak had mentioned once how sewing was calming to him, the measured rhythm of thread and needle, the sense of accomplishment at a finished piece. To focus on work was to take the mind off other, more troubling matters. Keiko believed, though she’d never attempted to confirm it, that when awaiting news of the Defiant on those sorts of missions, she would find him in the back room of his shop, stitching away no matter the hour.

As for Julian… she’d noticed something of a change long before that, though far more subtle. She supposed it was after Ops had returned from their capture by the Dominion, when they had been thrust into that dastardly simulation. After his debrief, her husband had recounted much of what he witnessed, though one detail stood out.

_Would’ya believe it,_ he’d said, stretched out on the sofa. _They said he had to watch Garak die in his arms. I didn’t see it myself, but…blimey,_ he scoffed, taking another swig of whiskey. _I mean I’ve no love lost between me and the bloke but I know he and Julian have a thing going. I wouldn’t wish that on the poor fella, no matter how much I don’t like the company he keeps._

Miles moved on quickly from that, and it was never brought up again, by him or Dr. Bashir. Keiko couldn’t imagine how – even if you were strangers, even if you received Starfleet training for these exact battle scenarios, watching the light leave someone’s eyes wasn’t something you could ever forget.

She had the sneaking suspicion that Garak and the Doctor weren’t just not-strangers, but rather something a lot closer to more-than-friends, if they could ever work up the courage. Activating her console, the pastel greens and pinks of the Cardassian-design viewscreen glowed and hummed to life. It was late, so she wouldn’t bother trying for a direct comm link. Instead she tapped out a brief invitation and sent it off, where it could be read at her friend’s leisure tomorrow morning.

\---

“Ah, Professor O’Brien,” a familiar voice greeted, lilting cadence floating through the expanse of the cargo bay. “It really was very kind of you to invite me to join you.” Garak approached where Keiko kneeled near a bed of Denobulan rock-ferns. His stride was controlled and deliberate like every aspect of his demeanor, only a fraction of his guard permitted to relax in her presence. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She patted down the lime-enriched mix around the new transplants, and brushed off her hands. “You know there doesn’t need to be a special occasion, Garak,” she chided, smiling. He returned the gesture, but was obviously unconvinced.

She waved him over and he lowered himself to his knees beside her, assessing the work in progress. “Besides,” she added, “I like to come here and work with my hands when I’m feeling stressed. You know how hard it can be sometimes when Miles and the team return from an extended mission.” She loosened the root mass on another seedling and held it out to him. “You’re doing me a favor by being here.”

Garak tilted his head up a notch and eyed her appraisingly. If he passed any judgment, he kept it to himself. Instead he rolled up the sleeves of his tunic – something dark and relatively unadorned that might not mind a bit of dirt – and accepted the offering into his gray palms. “The alvar collection is coming along nicely, I see,” he remarked, wedging the plug in next to its neighbors. “Have you been able to procure the dwarf ledge-orchid specimens from the Hill Province yet? Or are you still waiting on the approval of your permits?”

“Still waiting, I’m afraid,” she sighed. “It’s probably sitting at the bottom of a pile somewhere in the Chamber of Ministers. You’d think after all those years of occupation they’d want to do everything they could to preserve and restore their natural heritage from the state it was left in. I suppose it’s just not at the top of their list right now.” She pursed her lips and tamped the soil down a bit more forcefully than needed. Garak raised an eye ridge but held his tongue.

“But enough about me,” she said, reaching for a tray of Draylaxian sprawling phlox seedlings. “How have things been with you? The shop doing well I hope?”

“Ah, how thoughtful of you to ask,” he responded, meticulously pinching unwanted runners from a Ktarian cliff spurge they’d installed a few weeks ago. For good measure, he glared menacingly at the barrens-violet beside it. “As always you and your daughter are two of my most loyal customers, and your continued patronage makes a world of difference for the livelihood of this humble artisan.”

“Well, what about Julian?”

A pause. Garak’s hands hovered over the delicate, feathery blooms of Terran prairie-smoke. His lips curled silently into the smile of one who was privy to the game. “The good doctor visits often, but when it comes down to it my dear he browses far more than he buys.”

“Maybe you need to offer more incentive,” she countered, not yet hazarding a glance over at him. “Instead of waiting around for him to come to you, you should bring the merchandise to him. Just a thought,” she added casually.

“Is that so?”

“Well you and I both know Julian sometimes has trouble figuring out what he wants. If left to his own devices, he might choose a piece that doesn’t suit him, just for the sake of having something to wear.”

Garak wiped his hands on a clean rag, getting beneath each manicured nail and around the margins of the scales that dotted his knuckles. “Professor, I can’t help but wonder if we’re still talking about my tailoring business, or something else entirely.” The words dripped melodically off his tongue and hung suggestively in the air. Their eyes met, and she saw something akin to respect hiding behind his inquiring gaze.

Keiko almost had to stifle a chuckle at how Miles would react if he knew she’d been negotiating with the enemy, and in his own language no less.

Garak got to his feet and brushed off his tunic and trousers. “I’m afraid this is where I must leave you,” he said, giving her a courteous bow. “A rather testy client of mine has scheduled a fitting less than a quarter hour from now and I simply can’t be late.”

She rose to see him out. “Thanks again for your help, Garak.”

“Of course. I do so enjoy our chats. I find them quite enlightening.” He turned and weaved his way conscientiously back through the gardens. “Ah, and,” he wagged a finger back at her, “do let me know when the orchids come in.” Flashing an affable smile he disappeared through the doors of the cargo bay.

Keiko could see why her husband didn’t like Garak. But she was not her husband.

\---

More missions, more no-shows from the tailor. Keiko really didn’t think she could have been any clearer, at least in Garak-speak. If she had to see that crestfallen, puppy-dog look on Bashir’s face one more time she’d drag the Cardassian to the airlock herself.

Or… just maybe, _she_ didn’t have to.

\---

Garak steadied his hands from their trembling state through sheer power of Cardassian-disciplined will. It wouldn’t do to ruin the stitching when the gold Triaxian silk he was using for the collar inlay was so expensive. His eyes flickered for what must have been the tenth time in the last half hour to his holoviewer, in futile hope that it would activate on command and show him what he desperately wanted – Captain Sisko announcing to Ops the successful return of the Defiant and requesting permission to dock. Not that he was supposed to have access to that feed, but he felt it necessary to remain up to date with current events as they happened, instead of waiting for news to reach him by ear, in case he needed to plan an escape. Or keep tabs on Dr. Bashir.

The Defiant hadn’t materialized from the wormhole on schedule, and since it was a covert mission to destroy a recently-located Jem’Hadar hatchery deep into enemy territory, they had maintained radio silence since leaving the Alpha Quadrant. They were due back five hours ago, and Garak was dangerously on edge. His foot tapped erratically as he continued to try and focus on the task at hand. If he could finish this dress shirt for Julian by the time the Defiant returned (and they would, because they simply must) then he could hand-deliver it to him at his quarters that evening, once the doctor had unpacked, eaten, and had a chance to freshen up. A perfect time to try on something new for his wardrobe.

Mrs. O’Brien had seemed quite certain that Bashir would be receptive to his advances if presented more directly, and perhaps in more human fashion as well. While it made for reliably engaging lunches, Garak’s heavy-handed Cardassian-style flirting seemed to be met only with riveting, yet decidedly _platonic_ debate. This private little game had been entertainment enough for a man who was still holding out for a call home, but at some point, regrettably, he’d dug a hole for himself when he actually started longing for reciprocation on a deeper level. Then, his chances of being repatriated went up in flames as his father – his golden ticket – and the entire Obsidian Order were obliterated, leaving him with no future but whatever he made here on this dismal station. Now that it seemed he’d be spending more time in this place than originally planned, he figured there was little use in staying squirreled away in his shop, refusing to forge bonds or engage in station life. Any connection could be a potential lifeline, physically or for sanity’s sake. As for Julian Bashir… he might as well try and do something about that too.

He glanced at the viewscreen again. Still nothing.

Just then, a rustle from the parlor disrupted his thoughts. He perked up, eyes widening, and went completely still. There it was again, the faint sound of shirts jostling on their racks. Garak noiselessly lowered his tools to the table and rose from the chair. He punched a command into the console and pulled up the security feed from the sales floor of the shop. The lights were off, and even his excellent low-light vision couldn’t detect any figures in the murky darkness. He’d have to investigate himself.

He discreetly edged the bottom drawer of his desk open and removed a phaser. One could never be too careful as a Cardassian on a Bajoran space station, or as an exiled spy with more enemies than friends these days. Then again, it could just be another vole. He’d been meaning to file a complaint with the Constable, as the lost sales from chewed garments was beginning to take a toll (on his professional pride as well as his finances).

Garak moved towards the door to the front of the shop, flattening himself against the wall and listening through the crack. Light, pattering footsteps accompanied the swishing of fabrics in contact. Not a vole, then. Holding the phaser behind his back, he swiftly opened the door, and shouted for the lights.

There was a blinding moment as his eyes adjusted, but it seemed his intruder was taken just as much by surprise. In front of Garak stood a bewildered Molly O’Brien, looking so much like a gettle caught in skimmer-lights he almost laughed. Out of her line of vision, he powered down the phaser and set it behind a display.

“Miss Molly, I do believe you’ve somehow gotten very lost,” he said, giving her his most benevolent smile. “Last I checked, my shop was closed.”

She studied him, the assessing eyes and keen instincts of a child that seemed to shatter any illusion, even that of a trained operative. After a few moments, she ran up to him and yanked on his tunic forcefully.

“You have to help me,” she begged. “Please, Mr. Garak sir.”

Garak cocked his head in confusion. How unexpected. “Whatever is the matter Miss O’Brien?”

“Please,” she whined, now taking his hand and tugging him towards the entrance. “Come with me, you have to.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. Somehow he’d let himself be dragged almost out the door. “Little one, surely it would be better if you could explain the problem to me first…”

“There’s no _time_ ,” she fussed, pulling him more insistently now. Tempering his annoyance, he tore his hand free from her grip with minimal strength.

“I really must inquire as to where your mother –”

Before he could finish his sentence, Molly had bolted out the door and down the Promenade. Garak sighed in exasperation. The child had of course put him in a tough position, giving him little choice but to follow. If it was an emergency and Keiko was in danger, he couldn’t ignore her daughter’s pleas. He threw a glance back at the workroom, where Julian’s gift laid nearly finished on the desk. Superstition was unbecoming on an intelligence agent, but still something in his gut lurched at the prospect of leaving for even a few minutes and potentially missing that all-important message when it came (if he wasn’t there to watch and wait, maybe it would never come). He collected himself, shoving his fears to the back of his mind as he quickly pressed the wall pad to lock up the shop and wandered out onto the Promenade to seek his quarry.

Almost immediately he spotted her, peeking out from behind a pillar in the Replimat. He strode towards her, about to call her name, when she darted out and ran further down the winding hall. His jaw clenched in frustration; he was not in the mood for a game of cat and mouse. Still, what choice did he have? Keiko would never forgive him if he let her daughter get mixed up with any of the unsavory characters that passed through the station. He briefly wondered when being considered reliable (he didn’t dare say _trustworthy_ ) by those he shared his time with had become so important to him.

Keeping his eyes on her, bobbing and winding her way through the foot traffic, he sped up to try and match her pace. He could prowl unnoticed along the perimeter of crowded rooms, granted, but he wasn’t slim and lithe like the Doctor, and so was finding himself blocked by the throngs coming and going from Quark’s.

He managed to squeeze through, and saw her waiting for him up ahead near the infirmary. He was _not_ going to break into a ridiculous half-jog on the Promenade, chasing after a little girl for no, as of yet, justifiable reason. As he approached, he turned to glimpse the harshly lit interior of the infirmary, almost expecting to see Bashir standing there preparing a hypo or jotting patient notes on a padd. A pang of longing and of worry pulsed through him.

Preoccupied by the task at hand, Garak had utterly failed to notice Keiko O’Brien following the two of them from the upper level, or the sly, proud smile that painted her face. Back in his shop, the monitor was relaying a much-anticipated announcement to an empty room.

And so Garak pursued her, at a brisk but sustainable pace, down the Promenade, up the spiral staircase, and through the long corridor that stretched between the habitat ring and the outer docking ring. Every so often she’d glance back at him, and if he’d fallen behind she’d stop and wait for him to catch up, never letting him quite reach her before dashing off again.

He was far too old for these sorts of shenanigans. If he had any less pride he’d admit to himself how out of breath he was by this point. He should be grateful he never had any children of his own; not like the Order gave him much choice in the matter, and at his age that ship had sailed – unless of course, the circumstances of his life changed drastically, and he by some miracle found himself entangled with someone foolish enough to want to carry on his family line…

Banishing the thought, he roused from his momentary distraction, seeking to lock onto the figure of the ephemeral O’Brien. Instead, he became acutely aware of just how far away from his shop he’d been shepherded. As he continued down the hall he noticed people standing around expectantly, and soon was wading through the trickle of civilians gathering by one of the airlocks, trying to spot Molly somewhere at waist height. At last he found her, focus drawn away from the airlock which had just slid open, the exhausted crew of the Defiant emerging unceremoniously and helped down the steps by loved ones.

He leaned down to her sternly. “Miss O’Brien, I sincerely hope this emergency of yours was –”

“Molly, honey! There you are!” Garak turned as Keiko seemed to materialize behind him, rushing forward to scoop her daughter up with a sigh of relief. “Oh, Garak, I can’t thank you enough for finding her, I’ve been looking all over the place!”

Garak’s mouth hung open. “…Yes, of course, though I must ask –”

“Oh, here they come,” she said excitedly, patting his arm. “You’re just in time.”

He followed her gaze to the airlock, where the last of the haggard crew were coming aboard. First was Miles, and he looked worse for the wear, with streaks of something dark that could have been oil, mud, or blood (or some mix of the three) staining the gold of his uniform. Upon reaching Keiko he folded in on himself, seeming to shrink in her arms. She rubbed his back, and he whispered something in her ear that made her face tighten with distress. Keiko caught Garak watching them, and shot him a pointed glance towards the airlock.

The unmistakable wiry frame of the station’s CMO teetered on the threshold, burdened not just by his cargo but by some baggage that it seemed all of the crew had picked up along the way. He had a haunted look about him, glazed eyes ghosting over the smattering of civilians still present. His gaze fell on Garak, who stared back wide-eyed, entirely unprepared for the encounter. Julian blinked in astonishment, a bit of life already returning to his somber features. He made his way over, dropping his bags at his sides.

Julian shared with him a quiet, desperate look that told Garak everything he needed to know – the mission had run into unforeseen complications. Dark circles ringed his always lovely hazel eyes, and the scent of stale sweat and spent adrenaline wafting off of him meant that he probably wanted nothing more than to hit the sonic and unwind. Garak couldn’t help but long to hold him close, comfort him from whatever horrors he’d seen.

To his surprise, Julian lurched forward and crashed into Garak in a firm embrace. He was almost too stunned to respond, Julian’s warmth and weight so solid against his chest. He brought his hands up around Julian’s back, and rubbed slow circles into the fabric of his uniform like Keiko had done. He felt Julian unclench, sinking deeper into Garak’s hold. His cheek pressed against Garak’s, face nestled into the crook of that ridged neck. The shuddered exhale of a hot breath against his skin sent Garak’s daft old heart pounding in his chest.

“It’s good to see you,” he murmured next to Julian’s ear, knowing that the words were far too trite to express a fraction of what he hoped to convey.

After several more seconds Julian finally released himself, allowing Garak to see how wet his eyes had become. Yet, so obstinate was this man that he refused to permit the tears to fall. Not that Garak was one to talk.

Julian sniffed back the worst of it. “You’ve never come to see me before,” he said, voice quivering. “Why now?”

Garak’s shame sat like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach, churning with anguish at the sudden overwhelming regret as every instance of his cowardice hit him at once, the realization of Julian’s heartbroken disappointment each time Garak hadn’t been there. He had no good answer ( _it was an accident, I had no intentions of being here_ ) and no wish for a placating half-truth to diffuse the situation ( _Doctor, I had no idea you’ve been expecting me all this time – how rude of me!_ ). Instead, he did the only thing he could find it in his heart to do.

He slid a hand up Julian’s neck to cradle the back of his head, and leaned forward to press their foreheads together. Julian wasn’t expecting it, and his eyes remained open in vague alarm for a few moments, too close to Garak’s face to focus on it, until they fluttered closed in acceptance of the gesture, relinquishing control.

“Oh, I am sorry, my dear,” Garak breathed, and Julian could feel every word on his skin. “I hope you can forgive me.”

He was enheartened that Julian hadn’t tried to wriggle away from the intimacy, maintaining contact as slowly, his breathing evened out. Garak had entertained the foolish, sentimental notion of sharing this special connection with Bashir more often than was good for him. He reasoned he’d never get this far; oh, how he did delight in being proven wrong by this man.

Garak freed him at last, instantly missing his touch. They were still mere inches apart, and he could see the faint tremble in Julian’s lower lip. His eyes darted up to Garak’s for just a second before he quickly closed the distance and kissed him. It was scarcely more than a brief peck on the lips, but it sent sparks through Garak’s ribcage, leaving him staring slack-jawed.

Julian looked away timidly as he muttered, “Well there’s your incentive to keep coming back.”

Garak blinked, and blinked again. It really was of the utmost importance that he regain his coherence at such a pivotal moment. Julian hazarded a glance up at him, and upon seeing Garak’s sustained shock, his face fell just the slightest amount. Oh, Garak knew what that meant – in that one instant, Julian’s mind had started cycling through anxious, hopeful, hesitant, questioning, regret, _regret_ –

Garak pulled Julian back to him and captured him in a solid kiss, unwilling to watch such gut-wrenching doubt distort that beautiful face. He could barely keep his wits about him, as by some miracle Julian didn’t wrestle himself away, instead tilting his head into the kiss and bringing a sinfully warm hand to Garak’s waist.

When they parted, it was Julian’s turn to bear the stunned expression, but there was an undeniable air of exhilaration behind it.

It took Garak a second to find the ability to form words. “I believe,” he tried, slowly, “there’s _your_ incentive, to keep coming back _in one piece_.” His hands, desperately needing something to do, moved to smooth out the front of his tunic. “It wouldn’t do to have to find a new lunch partner.” The corners of his mouth quirked upwards, and Julian mirrored it, his nervous smile growing wider by the second.

A deliberate cough nearby made them both turn. Miles stood a few meters away, pale-faced, looking dreadfully uncomfortable. “Er, Keiko,” he stammered, “maybe we ought to head back…”

They and the O’Briens were in fact the only ones left at the airlock now. Julian flashed an apologetic grin at his friend, who just exhaled a heavy sigh and rubbed his temples. Miles picked up Molly in his arms as Keiko saddled herself with his luggage. He passed them swiftly, giving a brief, stiff nod to Julian while avoiding direct eye contact. Molly waved cheerfully from her perch. Julian turned back to Garak, and in doing so missed the wink that Keiko threw at Garak on her way by, scurrying to catch up with her husband. Garak swallowed. He’d have to make Molly’s next three dress fittings free. Or maybe pull a few strings with the Major to have those permits of hers put through.

Down the hall, they could both hear the youngest O’Brien’s eager voice ask, “Did I do good, Mommy?”

“Yes, sweetheart, you were perfect,” came the reply. “I’m sure Doctor Bashir and Mr. Garak will want to thank you next time they visit.” Their voices faded into the background hum of the station.

Garak and Julian met each other’s stare again rather sheepishly. “Well,” Garak remarked, straightening himself, “if I may help you with your equipment…”

Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, ah, well…yes, of course, that’s, very kind of you.” He bent down, stopping halfway to ponder whether to hand Garak the heavier or the lighter of the two cases and deciding on the former. Garak received it effortlessly, and together they started down the corridor, letting shoulders brush and then stay touching.

“By the way,” Garak ventured after they’d walked a distance, “I have something for you. It’s not quite completed,” and he seemed a bit irked at himself for that, “but if you like I could bring it by your quarters later, once you’ve had a chance to get settled.”

“Oh!” Julian said, warmth creeping into his cheeks, “that’d be lovely… Garak, I hope you didn’t go through too much trouble, really, I’ve told you before that I ought to be paying for all the wonderful clothes you make me. Although,” he looked down at his feet, “I suppose I understand now why you never let me.”

Garak raised his free hand to silence him. “I’ll hear nothing of it, my dear. Besides, I’ll rather shamefully admit I’ve had an abundance of time to work on it. Consider it a token of gratitude that you made it back safe, albeit late enough to frazzle my nerves. It’s the least I can do for throwing myself into my work when I’m sure now that you would have appreciated a friendly face much more than a new shirt.”

Julian nudged him fondly with his shoulder. “I dunno, I’ll be the judge of that once I see the shirt.”

They both chuckled, the exhaustion and turmoil of the latest harrowing ordeal all but forgotten for at least a little while as they meandered their way towards the habitat ring.

\---

Miles opened the door to their quarters and let Molly down so she could run inside and plop on the sofa. “Say, Keiko…”

She turned to him, setting the bags by the door.

“You didn’t… happen to have anything to do with, y’know…” He gave a little sideways nod, as if the two men in question were eavesdropping on the other side of the bulkhead. “Julian, and Garak…”

Keiko eyed him incredulously. “What, me?” She slapped him on the arm playfully. “What do you think I am, some sort of criminal mastermind?”

She left for the refresher as Miles huffed in confusion under his breath, taking a seat next to Molly. “You better not take after your mother on this one, alright?” He pointed an accusatory finger in front of her nose.

Molly just smiled, knowing twinkle in her eye, as she hopped off the couch to get another toppling stack of crayon drawings that would trap him there the rest of the evening.

**Author's Note:**

> You may imagine your own scenario for how little Molly O'Brien managed to sneak her way into Garak's closed shop. There's a few options. Don't worry, Keiko would never put her in harm's way!


End file.
